by John Koloen
While Rocha spoke, Dias paged through his notes, looking for a mention of the assistant.
“Were you interviewed by anyone while you were down there?”
“You mean the press?” Rocha asked.
“No. Someone from my office or, perhaps, wildlife officers?”
“No. Nobody talked to me. I was kinda depressed and stuck to myself. They mostly talked to the Americans and the boat captain. All I did was try to find the professor.”
Dias sat across from Rocha and started asking questions and scribbling in his notebook. Rocha explained what he did in the rainforest, what his job involved, what he knew about the professor and especially what he knew of the expedition and the Americans.
“I still don’t know a whole lot about it,” Rocha said, sipping from his drink. “You know, I’m not an entomology major so I can’t tell you anything about the research the professor did except that he’d discovered some sort of cockroach on steroids and that the team was going to gather specimens. I can take you to his office. Maybe you can go through his papers or something.”
“That would be very helpful, if you don’t mind,” Dias said, closing his notebook.
8
HIS FIRST FULL day back at the office did not work out the way that Duncan had planned. Boyd emailed in sick for starters. Getting his university-issued phone replaced was more difficult than he’d expected. He had to convince a clerk that he shouldn’t be charged for its loss. Eventually, with the help of an administrator, he got a new phone but couldn’t pick it up until the next day.
This was frustrating because his expectation was that he would simply have it handed it to him and all of his email, voice messages, bookmarks and contacts would automatically reappear. He was not happy with the explanation that there were others ahead of him whose phones were being prepared. He was tempted to pull rank but thought better of it, insisting that it be ready in the morning.
Sitting at his desk, staring at endless pages of emails on his desktop computer, he felt helpless without an assistant. Scanning the emails, he wished he’d had a better filter, because there seemed to be an inordinate number from people whose names he didn’t recognize. Normally he would delete them but, for the most part, they weren’t spam. They were requests for interviews from media.
“What the fuck,” he said aloud.
It hadn’t occurred to him that what happened in Brazil would be newsworthy and now, more than ever, he wished that Boyd was in the office to help him out. So he called him using his office phone, which he virtually never used since he relied almost exclusively on his cell phone.
Boyd didn’t even try to fake it when he answered his boss’s call.
“I’m just tired and worn out,” Boyd said.
“Me, too,” Duncan said unsympathetically. “But I need help.”
Frustrated, Duncan pressed Boyd, insisting that he come to work. Realizing he couldn’t win the argument, Boyd said, “I’ll be there before noon,” and ended the conversation.
Minutes later, a knock came on Duncan’s door. A middle-aged woman in a dark blue skirt and white blouse stepped inside.
“Dr. Duncan,” she said firmly. “The dean wants to see you. You know, we’ve been calling you for days. Don’t you ever check your messages?”
9
INVESTIGATOR DIAS FOLLOWED Daniel Rocha into the late Fernando Azevedo’s office. After surveying the small, cluttered space, Dias studied the desktop, which was covered with notes, scientific journals and papers. The bookcases that lined the walls were filled with books, specimen cases, mementos, framed photos and other items. Everything was covered with dust.
“Has anyone been in here since the professor left?” Dias asked.
“Just me, as far as I know,” Rocha replied.
“It looks like it’s never been cleaned.”
“The professor had a thing about custodians cleaning up.”
“A thing?”
“He was afraid he’d never be able to find anything, though you would think a little cleaning wouldn’t hurt,” Rocha said.
Looking at his notes, the detective asked, “What about this boat captain? What do you know about him?”
Rocha explained how he’d contacted the captain in an effort to rescue the professor.
“It was Javier something,” Rocha said. “Ahh, no, it was Gonzalo Juarez. I have his number on my phone.”
Dias smiled. Using Bluetooth, Rocha sent the contact information to Dias’s phone.
“One more thing,” Dias said as he looked at his phone to confirm the data transfer, “Do you know anything about this insect they were looking for?”
“Oh, not me. I just did routine filing and mostly surfed the web.”
“Sounds like the perfect job.”
“Except that I’ll probably be out of a job until next semester.”
Reaching to a specimen box with a glass top from one of the bookcases, Rocha handed it to Dias. In it were a pair of dissected Reptilus blaberii.
“Wow, those are big baratas,” Dias said with amazement.
“Yeah, I don’t know much about them.”
“I’d like to take this with me,” Dias said.
Rocha looked conflicted. He was uncertain whether it was appropriate to remove the professor’s belongings.
“Maybe you should ask the department head,” Rocha said weakly. “I don’t think I’m authorized to…”
“Nonsense,” Dias countered. “This is an investigation. I’ll tell you what, I’ll write a receipt acknowledging that I have this, this specimen. Here’s my card. I doubt anyone will even know that I have it, judging from the condition of this office.”
The detective left the campus with a lively step. In less than thirty minutes he had the boat captain’s phone number as well as a specimen that he could present to the state entomologist for examination. He felt he was close to concluding his investigation, though he hoped he’d be able to locate the surviving guide to get his story. Looking at the blue, clear sky, he felt the sort of elation that came with closing a case. He hoped it would last through the rest of the day.
10
MEDIA COVERAGE OF the expedition first emerged when a blogger in Manaus known for his gossipy content reported that wildlife officers had discovered a large number of bodies in the rainforest. Commenters speculated that landowners, revolutionaries, drug cartels, lumber thieves, wildlife officers themselves, and the Brazilian army were in one way or another responsible for the deaths and that the government was trying to cover it up. Since the initial coverage was in Portuguese, other media in South and North America had not picked it up and local media didn’t follow up because the blog had been called out for fabricating some of its coverage, which was largely anti-authoritarian.
Nestor Belmonte was not aware of the blog as he sat at his kitchen table, holding the silt-covered camera he’d found in the forest. Yes, it could be construed as stolen property, but at the time he thought vaguely that the camera had some value, that it might be possible to dry it out, clean it up and sell it. But it was clear that the camera was in a hopeless condition. Nonetheless, he pulled out the memory card. After cleaning it, he inserted it into the card reader on his laptop and prepared to be disappointed. He was thrilled when the flash card’s icon appeared on the screen.
The card contained multiple mpeg files. Would they run? He opened the first one using a media app. None of the files were longer than several minutes. Some of the files could be loaded but didn’t run. Some couldn’t be loaded. And some worked perfectly. The camera microphone was sensitive enough to pick up conversations and background noises, but it didn’t get interesting until the images of animal carcasses and a human skeleton appeared.
“Que porra?” he whispered to himself as the choppy video played out on his laptop.
Fast-forwarding through the remaining files he could hardly believe what he was seeing. His pulse quickened as each scene played out. He was elated and felt a rush of energy. This is an incredible
find, he thought as he struggled to keep up with the rapid pace of possibilities deluging his mind. Within moments one thought rose to the top.
“I’m going to be rich!” he said loudly, and quickly covered his mouth. It would not be good for others in the apartment building to know of this. He was now focused on what it would take to make money from the videos and for that he needed to talk to someone. He and Hugo Martins had planned to scavenge the site at some point. It wasn’t like they would be stealing, though their boss might not see it that way. For a moment he wondered whether he could really trust Martins, but he couldn’t resist the urge to confide in someone. So he called him.
11
DUNCAN WASN’T SURE what to expect when he was ushered into his dean’s spacious office. The walls were covered with certificates and photographs of the dean shaking hands with politicians and academic superstars. He took a seat in a dark brown, tufted leather chair with padded arms. Dean Chester Dearborn nodded at Duncan as he finished a phone call.
“Ah, alumni,” he said, smiling. “You can’t live with ’em and you can’t live without ’em.”
“No, Chet, I suppose not.”
Dearborn pulled a manila folder from a small pile on his massive, glass-topped executive desk.
“Have you replaced your phone yet?” the dean asked.
“I’m supposed to get one tomorrow. Why?”
“Public affairs has been trying to reach you for days.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand. I just got back.”
“I understand that. Have you tried to contact Carlos Johnson’s parents?”
“Yes, I did. From the consular office in Manaus. I tried to tell them what happened, but I guess they’re still trying to come to grips with his death. I think they may have hung up on me.”
“I’m glad to hear that you called them.”
Duncan smiled sheepishly. If it hadn’t been for Boyd’s urging, he would have put the call off. Good for Cody, he thought.
Pulling up the university’s daily summary of news coverage on his computer, the dean turned his monitor so that Duncan could see it. The entire screen was filled with two-sentence summaries from local, state and national media, all of them referencing the death of Carlos Johnson. One headline leaped out at him: Parents of dead student want answers.
“What did you say to them?” Deanborn said.
“I already told you I offered my condolences several times. I didn’t tell them much about it because they didn’t ask me anything other than how could it have happened. I tried to explain, but they kept cutting me off. I know they were upset. I thought it best just to listen. I don’t know, I hope I did the right thing.”
Dearborn rubbed his forehead as if massaging a headache and swept his hands through his hair. His chair swiveled slightly as he leaned forward, sighing.
“You know, I read the article and I don’t know what to say to the parents. I know Johnson signed a release and all that, but things are probably going to get worse.”
“How so?”
“There’s a blogger in Brazil who’s posted information that hasn’t made it to the mainstream media yet. One of our public affairs people learned about it from a Brazilian student. He translated it.”
The dean laid a printout of the post in front of Duncan. It read like a dispatch from a foreign correspondent.
“He’s exaggerating,” Duncan protested as he finished reading. “Where is this information coming from?”
“He doesn’t say, but as you may have noticed, he says the police are investigating and that his source says you should’ve known better than to go where you did given the weather.”
Duncan tilted his head against the back of his chair and stared at the ceiling. He thought back to the meeting with the group at Maggie Cross’s rental in Manaus. Not much was said about the weather. The conversation was mostly about how to gear up, how to pay for it and how quickly they could start.
“Yeah, we didn’t spend much time talking about the weather,” he stammered.
“Apparently, you should have,” Dearborn said harshly. “And this doesn’t even touch on all the bodies that the police found. I mean, were you in a war zone and didn’t know it, or what? I really want to understand this because I have a meeting coming up with the president and he wants answers yesterday.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Dearborn sighed heavily.
“You’re on thin ice here, OK? I want you to understand this. I want a full report on my desk by close of business today. And I don’t want anything left out. I’m afraid this is just the beginning, and once the American media picks up on what’s being said in Brazil, all hell will break loose. Public affairs is already working up talking points but they don’t have much to go on, so I’ll forward your report to them after I’ve read it.”
The two looked at one another as the conversation abruptly ended. Duncan rose awkwardly as if on cue, stepped away from the chair and pointed himself to the door.
“Under no circumstances are you to talk to the press,” the dean commanded. “If someone calls, refer them to public affairs. Is that understood?”
Duncan nodded timidly.
“And about your phone, I’ll have my secretary get a new one today. Make sure you have it with you at all times.”
Duncan walked slowly to his office, overwhelmed by self-doubt over the decisions he had made and fearful of what was yet to come.
12
EDUARDO DIAS ARRANGED to meet Captain Gonzalo Juarez on the dock where he kept his boat. Dias had tried to get the captain to meet at his office but Juarez insisted that the detective come to him—for good reason. One, Juarez didn’t want his wife to find out that he was involved in a police matter, and two, he had a friend who once went to be interviewed at the police department and ended up in jail for three months. He felt more secure at his boat, though he didn’t say that to Dias.
The meeting was brief and not as informative as Dias had hoped. The detective had a copy of the report filed by wildlife police but was hoping to flesh it out. He sensed that Juarez had held back information but couldn’t put his finger on it. The man smiled a lot and was pleasant, but nervously moved about his boat while being questioned. At first Dias thought Juarez was hiding something from him but then it became clear that Juarez couldn’t express himself very well in Portuguese and sometimes lapsed into Spanish, which Dias didn’t speak.
Five minutes into the interview and Dias stopped taking notes as Juarez moved about the small boat. He didn’t seem to know much. When he asked if he knew the guide Antonio Suarez, the captain shrugged.
“I knew the professor a little but none of the others,” Juarez said. He feared that the more he talked, the more likely he would get into trouble. Holding up his finger, he retreated to the tiny wheelhouse and emerged with several flyers.
“One of the guides gave them to me. He wanted me to hand them out to passengers,” Juarez said.
The flyers promoted Javier Costa’s guide service and included two phone numbers.
The detective thanked Juarez and stepped off the boat.
“Looks like a nice day,” Dias said.
Juarez smiled and waved as the detective left the dock. He’d been worried that he could be prosecuted for being two days late picking up the Americans and felt relieved that the detective hadn’t brought it up.
13
NESTOR BELMONTE COULD hardly contain himself when he welcomed Hugo Martins into his apartment. He shook hands extravagantly and spoke nonstop and rapidamente, so much so that when Martins took a seat at the kitchen table he asked Belmonte if he had taken drugs. Belmonte laughed, grabbed two Brahmas from the fridge, popped the tops, set one in front of his guest, and slid into a facing chair. He leaned back and took a long, leisurely swallow before gently setting the bottle on the table and breaking into a wide, can’t-hide-it smile.
“What?” Martins asked. “You said you wanted to show me something. By the way, thanks for the be
er.”
“You remember that camera I found in the forest?”
“The one you stole?”
“Stole? How can picking up something after a flood be called stealing? I thought we were friends.”
“We are,” Martins said, sipping his beer.
“You didn’t tell anyone, did you?” Belmonte asked with mock suspicion.
“No, why would I do that?”
“Good. But as I told you on the phone…”
“Something about the camera, right. You thought you could sell it online?”
“No. It don’t work. There are videos on the memory card that you gotta see. I think we can make money off them, only I don’t know how and I know you do stuff online a lot more than me and—well, first watch the videos and then we’ll talk.”
Belmonte was too anxious to stay in the tiny kitchen with Martins while he viewed the videos. But he was also too nervous to stay out of the kitchen as he studied his friend’s face for reactions, pacing back and forth like a crazy person.
“Would you please stop that,” Martins barked.
“I’m just excited. Sorry.”
Belmonte took his seat and sipped his beer, emptying the bottle by the time Martins had finished watching the videos.
“You want one?” He asked as he reached in his fridge for another beer. Martins held up his bottle and shook his head. “Not yet.”
“So, what do you think?” Belmonte asked expectantly.
“What do I think? You mean about the videos?”
“No, about the weather. Of course, man, about the videos. Get serious.”
“Gruesome,” Martins started, “and really interesting. It almost looks like someone was trying to shoot a reality show only they had trouble keeping the camera steady.”